Ritchie Sauces
Amy Greathouse (treasurer)

Richie and I took a taxicab (driven by a delightful Yugoslavian man, I
recall) to Dickie’s apartment. I don’t drive and Richie only had a
unicycle for transport. Sitting in the cab with him, I felt uneasy
and attempted to lighten the mood with a little small talk. (Nowadays
I wouldn’t feel comfortable in a football stadium with R.S, but back
then he was much less unsettling)

“Soooo. . . .”, I said, fumbling for the next sentence. “Do you think
Serious is guilty?”

“I don’t know. I mean, those crazy statements he made in chemisty
class were pretty incriminating. “
“You were in that class?”
“Yes. Dickie and I are lab partners in organic chemistry. It’s even
possible that it was Dickie that made that recording that Drummond
had. He tapes all of our classes.”
“You and Dickie are lab partners?” I asked, silently musing about
Drummond’s lack of care regarding conflicts of interest. However, he
was the trained professional, and I only a recently sworn in associate
of the law. . . . I decided to switch to an area I had more expertise
in. “This whole glowing hand thing is interesting. Perhaps I could
examine the crime scene for traces of ectoplasm.”

“Hmm.” This seemed to interest Ritchie.

I was more than surprised when we reached our destination―Dickie’s
apartment was in a building well known to me! It was once the
residence of the notorious dark magician Luce Hadden. My opinion at
the time was that he was nothing more than a charlatan, but my view
changed drastically afterwards.
We entered the elderly elevator and were greeted by an equally elderly
man and a young Japanese woman. They were both in elevator operator
uniforms.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the older man began “but I’m training a new
employee today. Would it be all right if Yuka served as your elevator
operator today? I can assure you she’s been through all of the
required classes. She has an internship at the 株式会社そごう department
store coming up this summer. And I will be present at all times. But
if you’re not comfortable with that arrangement, I would be happy to
transport you myself.”
“No, that’s fine.” I said. I thought it quite unusual to see an
elevator operator in the first place, but I do so enjoy the idea of an
elevator operator, if you understand me.
“And is it all right with you, sir?” he asked Ritchie.
Ritchie stood thinking for 20 seconds or so thinking before replying: “Ok.”
“What floor please?” Yuka asked, looking a little uncertain.
The elevator moved in a laborious and creaky fashion to the 13th floor.
“I hear that some buildings are featuring self-serve elevators.”
Ritchie ventured. The older man barely controlled a shudder.
“Yes, well. Each building needs to do what it feels is best for its
patrons.” he said diplomatically. Ritchie whistled the chorus to
Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush until we reached our destination.
Ritchie tipped both elevator operators, something that would never
have occurred to me to do. It goes to show that he once was the sole
of gracious behavior―which makes his current demeanor that much more
shocking!
While Dickie’s apartment was as lavishly decorated as I would have
expected, it was fairly small. Dickie greeted us saying, “I’m really
sorry, I’m in the middle of something very important. Can you wait in
the living room for a few minutes?”
As we waited, I looked around a little and thought out loud.
“Well, there’s nothing that looks terribly incriminating. But then, I
wouldn’t know what to look for. And he’s had time to dispose of
anything suspicious. I see no signs of paranormal activity, either.”
“I don’t think so, either” said Ritchie. “It looks pretty much the
same as it did last time I was here.”
“You were here before?” I asked incredulously. And more than a
little annoyed. Ritchie seemed to always be revealing some choice
tidbit that turned every one of my assertions upside-down! “You
never mentioned that you were lab partners with Dickie or that you
were in Serious’ chemistry class. You never mentioned that you’d been
to this apartment before. Is there anything else that you haven’t
told me?”
Ritchie thought for a moment and replied. “I’m interested in
milkmaids?” he asked, even though it wasn’t a question.
I ignored his aberrant statement. I have to admit that I was starting
to become a little impatient. “What were you doing here anyway?”
“Dickie is my lab partner in organic chemistry. We were … experimenting.”
I looked around the room. Nothing at all appeared to indicate that
young Dickie knew a beaker from a turnip. There were a lot of wrinkly
prints of young men body builders on the wall. Perhaps the two of
them were working on developing some health tonics?
“I don’t see any chemicals or lab equipment around. What on earth
were you experimenting with?”
Ritchie looked up at me* and looked as if he was about to answer.
After about 25 seconds, when I had assumed that he was going to ignore
my question, he responded in a slow, deliberate tone that he often
used.
“We were experimenting … (a long pause here) …. with …
chemistry.” I briefly considered this to be a euphemism for some
dicey activities—but before I could respond, Dickie entered the
room.
“Sorry”, he said. I’ve been trying to reach level 9 for days now. I
finally cracked it!” He had been making us wait while he was playing
a computer game! I muttered under my breath something about his
ancestry which may or may not have been true but was certainly
impolite.
He offered us kumquat-flavoured sodas** and politely answered our
questions. Ritchie proved to be a rather effective interviewer.
Dickie’s description of the backstage activities agreed with Serious’
and Harriet’s accounts. (I didn’t know that at the time, of course,
but learned it after we returned and assembled all of our facts
together.) He said that he thought that he had seen both security
guards before, but he wasn’t sure where. What was more important was
what he said happened after they left the back stage area.
“After we left, my mom said she left something behind. She returned
backstage to get it. It was 3 or 4 minutes. Then she returned, a
little flushed and we left.”
“So you didn’t see a glowing gloved hand or anything like that?” Ritchie asked.
“Well, yes.” Dickie said, surprised. “I saw a glowing gloved hand
messing around with the stage curtains. I just assumed that it was a
prop.” Note: Bulldog had determined that there was no prop
resembling a glowing gloved hand.
In the cab back, I asked Ritchie, “I feel his story about his mother
to be a bit weak and convenient. Do you think HE shot Harriet and is
setting his mother up?”
“Maybe.” Ritchie considered. “Even if he didn’t shoot Harriet, he
might try to frame her. He was very upset about his mother
embarrassing him in front of the entire school. He said the security
guards looked familiar. Interesting.”
Then we went our separate ways and met up with the rest of the Ghoul
Squad the next day. It was one of my last normal afternoons with
poor, poor Ritchie.

*Although Ritchie is a great deal taller than me, he was sitting in
his usual hunched over manner and I was standing.

**to this day, I wonder about the wisdom and strategy necessary to
launch a kumquat flavoured soda.

–Alma Mahler

Persephone & I were assigned to interview Humberto Quackenbush, security guard regarding his activities on the night Harriet was shot. Before we left, I used a pay phone at the police station to call my friend Kevin Blake who works in Human Resources at the university for any further information. Kevin knows all the dirt on the faculty and staff. And it appears that Humberto Quackenbush has been both.

It seems that Dr. Quackenbush had been a professor of political science who had been denied tenure for undisclosed reasons. The university gossip was that he had become mentally unstable and had begun drinking heavily. He took a position as a security guard and places ads in magazines advertising himself as a soldier of fortune.

I also asked about the enigmatic ‘Radish’. Kevin told me that none of the university’s current security guards were under the age of 31, so this Chonggak* must have been an imposter.

I then called my friend Mick for advice on interviewing witnesses. I then got directions to Dr. Quackenbush’s apartment. I then called Junie for the hockey scores. Not good. I then found Persephone waiting petulantly in the lobby.

We got on my motorcycle and drove to the subject’s building. Persephone held on to me tighter than strictly necesarry, but perhaps she had never ridden on a motorcycle before. I found a parking space and after a rough estimate of the anticipated duration of our interview, decided to deposit 65 cents. I set my wristwatch alarm to go off if we exceeded our time limit.

We entered the elevator and were greeted by an older man who identified himself as Edmund Bedford and a young Japanese woman who is now a good friend of Pepper’s. I will not include her name in this report as it will be available on the internet. I do not wish for her to receive any unwanted attention from the kind of people who frequent P.’s blog. (No offense). They were both in elevator operator uniforms. I found this unusual.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the Mr. Bedford began “but I’m training a new employee today. Would it be all right if Y. served as your elevator operator today? I can assure you she’s been through all of the required classes. She has an internship at the 株式会社そごう department store coming up this summer. And I will be present at all times. But if you’re not comfortable with that arrangement, I would be happy to transport you myself.”

I said “Yurakucho de Aimasho!” to Y., exhausting my knowledge of Japanese and I agreed to Mr. Bedford’s plan of action. Persephone grunted. Her headphones were blasting ‘The Ghost in You’ by Siouxie and the Banshees. I requested the 12th floor.

Dr. Quackenbush greeted us wearing camoflage briefs and an open kimono. It was clear that he had been drinking. There were hundreds of bottles of Wax Manniquyn beer laying about, some open, some not. While I pride myself on my knowledge of (un-flavored) beers, I had never encountered this brand before. I called my friend Gary who had recently relocated to Canada to be with his girlfriends (now wife) Greta who he had met on a German heavy metal listserv. Gary, whose knowledge of beer surpasses my own, told me that he had just encountered Wax Manniquyn beer for the first time that week. It is brewed in a small town in Quebec by reclusive Vietnamese twins, themselves under the legal drinking age.

Since there was a lady present, I encouraged Dr. Quackebush to put on slacks. Once he returned wearing stained combat fatigues, Persephone finally spoke up an began the interview.

Persephone asked if he had met this ‘Radish’ before.

“No, no,” he replied, clearly drunk. “No, but it’s good to see some fresh blood. He has a lot to learn. He acted nervous when I was showing him my gun.” Dr. Quackenbush shot up and looked around the apartment. After searching under a pile of dirty clothing he found his gun underneath a sofa cushion. He was eager to show his weapon off. While I have a passing familiarity with rifles, I know next to nothing about handguns, but he was rather proud of his gun and Persephone expressed great interest. Whether this interest was genuine or feigned, I don’t know.

Persephone’s interest succeeded in loosening his tongue a little. The first to enter the room was a nervous looking Harriet, accompanied by Iliana. Dr. Quackenbush claims that both young ladies propositioned him, but he could not comply, as he was on duty. Then ‘Radish’ came in and Dr. Quackenbush took great pride in explaining the finer points of security to the young man. Persephone persisted asking if he had previously seen Radish, Harriet or Iliana. He said that he had not.

Then Persephone asked about Jan Betel. Although this was my first experience interviewing a witness, I’ve done so several more times since and I can truthfully say that Dr. Humberto Quackenbush is the worst liar I’ve ever met. He began sweating profusely and fidgeting. He knocked an open beer bottle on the floor, spilling its contents. He denied ever meeting Jan Betel before, but it was obvious to anyone that he was not only lying, but very nervous about it.

Persephone calmed him down by asking about his gun again. After a lengthy lecture from H.Q., as he insisted Persephone call him, she was able to bring the topic around to Serious’ arrival. He seemed suspicious of Serious, but could not, or would not elaborate. He seemed to think that his guilt was an open and shut case.

We bid Dr. Quackenbush farewell. As we were leaving, I had remembered Amy’s (Anenome’s) interest in the glowing glove. I asked H.Q. if he had ever noticed a glowing gloved hand with a revolver.

He again grew agitated and slammed the door in our faces. However, the door didn’t shut, but rather sprang back open so that we could see Quackenbush running toward the bedroom yelling ‘The ghoul!”** As we left the building, Persephone suddenly sidled up to me taking my arm.

“I’m sorry, Sol.” she said. “It must have rained. The pavement’s a little slippery and these shoes are no good. Help me to your motorcycle?” I did so and drove her to the Artful Mug before returning home.

* Korean for ‘young radish’ or an unmarried man.

** Or so I thought.

–Oliver Weldon

Ghoul Squad Roll Call:

P.
Pepper Weckelsby (secretary)

Iliana’s apartment wasn’t too far away, and the weather was so beautiful, we decided to walk. This gave us a chance to clear our heads, get some fresh air and formulate our game plan. The planning didn’t take very long. Both of us shared classes with Iliana. I took Russian lit. with her and she and Pepper had some journalism class together. While neither of us really knew her, our experience told us that getting her to talk would not be a problem. Getting her to stop talking or to keep to the topic at hand would be far more challenging.

Our planning session completed, I got to spend the rest of our walk gazing at Pepper without trying to be too obvious about it. One of life’s greatest pleasures is to watch Pepper Weckelsby walk down the street on a sunny day. My spirits fell as she mentioned Renaldo, her fiancee. Was this just what she had on her mind or did she sense my interest and intend this as a subtle reminder that her heart belonged to another? She said that he was out of the country researching Peruvian accounting practices. He said that he was taking plenty of pictures and she was very excited about this.

We reached an impressive apartment building on Robinson Ave. Pepper’s eyes lit up.

“I thought I had recognized the address! This building was once the home of Luce Hadden, otherwise known as ‘the Gentleman Ghoul’! I’ll tell you more on the way back!”

We entered the elevator and were greeted by an older man and a young Japanese woman who would later become a great friend of Pepper’s. They were both in elevator operator uniforms.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the older man began “but I’m training a new employee today. Would it be all right if Yuka served as your elevator operator today? I can assure you she’s been through all of the required classes. She has an internship at the 株式会社そごう department store coming up this summer. And I will be present at all times. But if you’re not comfortable with that arrangement, I would be happy to transport you myself.”

I grew a little impatient as we slowly ascended to the 14th floor, but Pepper seemed quite excited at the novelty of the operators. She whistled “Come on, ghost” by the Pillows. I wasn’t sure how much to tip. I hope it was an appropriate amount.

Iliana greeted us warmly, offering each of us a tumbler of vodka. She was dressed quite provocatively, in a revealing nightgown and high heels. It was clear that she had already been drinking that evening. Before we could sit down, she told us exactly what she thought of us, as if reading off a checklist.

“P.! Your poetry is juvenile and without passion. Your insights into Russian literature might have some merit if you would read the works in their original language rather than the hideous ‘translations’ of Constance Garnett.”* After pronouncing the name she spat on the floor. “Perhaps someday I could teach you something about the Russian mind and of …. passion.” She moved closer to me. It’s possible she was coming on to me. I’m still not certain.

“Pepper! Your painting is worthless. Stop wasting your time on it. You have great journalistic instincts, however. Pehaps I could help you with your … investigations.” She raised an eyebrow. I’m fairly certain she was coming on to Pepper. She attempted to edge up to Pepper suavely. Her suaveness was derailed by two items. Her spittle on the floor from the Constance Garnett comment and her high-heeled slippers.** Pepper and I managed to catch her in time.

Pepper got out her notebook and began: “Can you..”

“Ah yes, the night of the shooting.” Iliana interrupted. “I was backstage with Harriet. The amateurs onstage were so pathetic. Barbershop quartets? No wonder you Americans cannot produce a decent opera! The skiffle band led my that lecherous British buffoon?! I had to stuff my ears with cotton! And that Amy Greathouse! Her so-called ‘interpretive dance’ is more suited to the monkey-house at the zoo, filled with monkeys, rather than..”

I could not bear any more of this. “Ms. Chaikovskaya!” I broke in. “I have had quite enough. I enjoyed Amy’s performance a great deal and even if I had not, she is a friend of mine and I will not permit you to speak about her in this manner!” I had expected Iliana to react quite antagonictically to this outburst. On the contrary, she smiled and seemed to regard me in a curious way. “Now,” I asked. “Who else was in the backstage area?”

“When we arrived, it was only the two security guards. No,” she corrected herself, “at first, just the one. The bearded one with the gut. He kept staring at me. All men do. Then the younger, thin one arrived soon after we did. He looked a little confused, unsure of himself. All men feel this way in my presence. He looked like he was trying to get Harriet’s attention, but she was absorbed in her preperations. She does not like to be disturbed before she goes onstage.”

“Then that idiot Betel woman and her idiot son came in to talk with Harriet. She spoke with Harriet in hushed tones as the boy sulked next to me on the sofa. Jan Betel thought no one could hear what they were saying, but I could hear. She was attempting to romance Harriet.”

“Harriet said ‘I’m not interested in women.’ I yelled from the couch “I am interested in women!” This surprised the Betel woman. Harriet made more excuses. This was just to get rid of the Betel woman. I can assure you that Harriet is interested in women. “

“Then that idiot Serious arrived to further interrupt her. I was leaving the room when I heard the gunshot. I ran toward the backstage area and ran into Serious. You know the rest.”

“Did you see a glowing hand or anything of the sort?” Pepper asked.

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I didn’t see a glowing hand.”

Before we left, Pepper made a sketch of ‘Radish’ based on Iliana’s description. “Hm.” said Pepper. “He looks a little familiar. Maybe he’s a student as well.”

We left more confused than ever. We decided to take a cab home. Pepper regaled me with lurid tales of Luce Hadden and I thought of bread and cheese.***

*While I have yet to learn Russian, I did take Iliana’s advice and get rid of my Garnett translations. Best move I ever made in terms of Russian lit.
** Perhaps the vodka she was drinking contributed as well.
*** I was getting hungry.

Nigel Cuttlefish (chairman)
P.
Amy Greathouse (treasurer)
Pepper Weckelsby (secretary)

At this point in our narrative, we enter scenes where I myself was not present. I have asked some of the players involved to present their recollections. We’ll see how many respond. First up is Anenome Greathouse known to me at the time as Amy. I recall that as we were getting ready to leave to interview witnesses, she approached me.

“P.,” she said hesitantly, “would it be alright if we switched partners?” I was a bit surprised. After all, this was the soft-spoken and kind Ritchie Sauces who was to be her interview-buddy.

“That’s fine.” I said. “Is there any reason why?”

“Well,” she began, “it’s probably nothing. It’s just that when we were backstage before the play, Ritchie said something to me. It didn’t make any sense really. But the more I think about it, I think… I think he might have been propositioning me.” She looked embarrased.

“And … is this a bad thing or …” I ventured.

“No, no! I mean yes!” she said. “I mean, Ritchie’s a wonderful guy, of course. I just don’t feel that way about him. And like I said, it’s probably nothing. What he said was so ambiguous … and yet so oddly suggestive … Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. I probably misinterpreted what he said. Colin had just come on to me in a manner that was in no way subtle, so that just put my mind in that direction.” she started to relax. “Colin’s great, but … I don’t have a problem dating older men and I don’t have a problem dating burnouts, but both…” she laughed.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t mind switching with you if you like.”

“No switching partners!” I heard Bulldog yell. “I paired you up using the latest criminological techniques! It is a very scientific method. I don’t want you messing things up!”

“What scientific method?” Pepper asked. “You threw our names in a hat and picked them out at random!”

“That ‘hat’ is a replica of a Cheshire constabulary helmet!” Bulldog bellowed.

“Replica?” I heard Nigel ask, disappointed.

“No switching partners!” Bulldog reiterated.

Amy reassured me that she would be fine with Ritchie and we all parted ways.

Coming up, Anenome tells us about their interview with Dickie Betel.

CAN YOU GUESS WHO SHOT HARRIET?

PIT YOUR WITS AGAINST YOUR FELLOW T.A.Z.MAHAL READERS AND VOTE FOR WHO YOU THINK THE CULPRIT MUST BE!

WAS IT ….

THE ECCENTRIC ARTIST?

THE JILTED LOVER?

THE ROGUE SECURITY GUARD?

THE MISCHEVIOUS GHOST?

OR SOMEONE ENTIRELY UNEXPECTED?

Poll: Who do YOU think shot Harriet?

To see if I can compose a poem,

From near the kettle

I distanced myself in great wrath.

–Rachel Morpurgo

Having loads of fun with it.

Nigel Cuttlefish (chairman)
P.
Ritchie Sauces
Amy Greathouse (treasurer)
Pepper Weckelsby (secretary)
Sol Weckelsby
Persephone Smallweed

Detective Drummond returned to the interrogation room.

“I’ve just had word that the victim regained consciousness. However, she’s understandably shooken up and is only speaking French. Our only French-speaking officer is on leave in Surinam, so we’re in a bit of a bind.”

“I speak French fluently” Serious volunteered.

“Perfect!” Drummond leapt toward the door. “Everyone, come with me!”

“But wait!” said Pepper. “Serious is a suspect! And you’re having him interview the victim!?”

“You’re right” Drummond groused. “That sort of thing won’t fly these days. Not with this new liberal female police commissioner.”

“Female?” Pepper asked. “Commissioner Abramson retired almost two years ago. I’m pretty sure Commissioner Jackson is a man.”

“At any rate,” Nigel piped in, “I believe that our good friend P. here is the man for the job. He is quite fluent in French.” This was a bit of an exaggeration. While my reading ability is quite good, I have to admit that my conversational skills are somewhat lacking, especially when I’m nervous. And interviewing an actress that I am attracted to while a room full of my friends and a police detective look on is not the most comfortable of circumstances. But what could I do but agree?

We sped off once again in Drummond’s roadster, cutting off an ambulance as we pulled in front of the hospital. When we entered Harriet’s room, I found myself less nervous than I had expected. Weak and disheveled as she was, Harriet had less of an effect on me. Now, before you label me a cad, I have to say that I have seen other love interests of mine not looking their best and it never reduced the level of attraction I had for them in the least. But this was the reaction I had with Harriet and perhaps this should have told me something.

She essentially confirmed Serious’ story, although she could not recall the last few moments properly. She couldn’t remember whether Serious had been there or not when she had been shot. She did, however, recall the glowing hand holding the revolver. She also added that one of the security guards kept trying to catch her attention but she had been too preoccupied with her other visitors to see what he wanted.

Bulldog quickly deputized us. We swore an oath on a stack of The National Police Gazette in a candlelit room while wearing Cheshire constabulary helmets. (Perhaps a Cheshire is a sister city of ours?) He split us into teams to interview the witnesses.

Ritchie & Anenome: Interviewing Dickie Betel
Sol & Persephone: Interviewing Humberto Quackenbush
P. & Pepper: Interviewing Iliana Chaikovskaya
Nigel & Bulldog: Interviewing Jan Betel

See you next time!

CAN YOU GUESS WHO SHOT HARRIET?

PIT YOUR WITS AGAINST YOUR FELLOW T.A.Z.MAHAL READERS AND VOTE FOR WHO YOU THINK THE CULPRIT MUST BE!

WAS IT ….

THE ECCENTRIC ARTIST?

THE JILTED LOVER?

THE ROGUE SECURITY GUARD?

THE MISCHEVIOUS GHOST?

OR SOMEONE ENTIRELY UNEXPECTED?

Poll: Who do YOU think shot Harriet?

–Adrienne Rich

Look at the list of books below: Bold the ones you’ve read. Mark in blue the ones you want to read. Cross out the ones that you wouldn’t touch with a 10 foot pole (or use red coloring). Finally, italicize the ones you’ve never heard of.

1. The DaVinci Code (Dan Brown) Ugh.
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling)
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King)
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. The Bible
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens)
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
71. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According to Garp (John Irving)
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White)
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck) 83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down(Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding)
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

Not sure how to do blue font (like that old Soviet-era joke). Just assume everything I haven’t read and haven’t crossed out is something I want to read.

I tag Jinx and Phoebe (who need to read more) as well as Nina & Kiki and Randall Woolf.

–Gloria T. Hull

Hi everyone!

Although I like P., this is not exactly how I envisioned spending my summer. I was going to go to martial arts camp in Hawaii, but after my little adventure my parents put the kibosh on that. Kibosh! But at least I’m getting paid (not very much) and P. gives me lunch for free (which is usually really good) and so far I haven’t had to do too much. But anyway ….

I was with Sol & Pepper in the You Read It, You Buy It bookstore and I was looking at the martial arts books. This creepy looking guy was also there browsing and he started talking to me about kung fu. It turned out that he knew quite a bit and after looking at him more closely, I could see that he was actually in great shape. He said he would give me a book that he wrote for free. At that point, Sol showed up and grabbed the book to make sure it wasn’t anything creepy. Before he was able to look through it, he was interrupted by a ruckus outside. That ruckus was being caused by P.! Ruckus!

P. was arguing loudly with a guy selling books and pamphlets and cd-roms outside and they looked like they were going to start fighting! And while P. is many things, he’s not a fighter. This street vendor goes by the name of David Johanssen. [No relation to the puck rock singer of the same name. I also don't think this is his given name. --P.] P. got him kicked out of Poetry-Con last year. Apparantly, he had been buying chapbooks from all the poets, scanning them and selling them on cd without giving the poets anything. He said that the discs were “in the tradition of the mixtape.” Well, that day P. was arguing with him loudly outside of the bookstore.

“Art should be free to all, you fascist!” DJ yelled.

“If it should be free, why are you charging 8 dollars for it?” argued P.

My friends Morty’s and Marty’s (from the Eelboy listserv) mom is a poet who regularly sells her poems at the con and last year her table was next to D.J.’s. She heard D.J. telling a customer that none of the 8 bucks would be going to ‘the man.’ She walked up to DJ and said “I’m an African-American lesbian vegan wiccan with two children to support. How exactly am I ‘the man’?” DJ just smiled and said “Thanks for your interest. Next customer?”

Apparantly someone hit him on the head with a butt-stick! (That’s a new phrase I picked up in India! Everyone was saying it! Hey, I just realized that I’ll be at the con this year and I finally get to meet Morty and Marty in person! Bring some Eelboy, men!)

Anyway, during the fracas (fracas!), SSS came up to me and told me “The order of the hidden scroll authorized me to give you this book. They want to train you to be their next leader.” Then he left. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have believed a word of that kind of ridiculous story, but for some reason the way he looked at me made me believe him. I think I was hypnotized. Yep, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So I read SSS’s book. While there were a few creepy pictures, I don’t think he was being a perv. I checked at the library later and apparantly, all of his books have pictures of him doing yoga. The book was about a secret martial arts school hidden in India and how to find them! It just so happened that my penpals, triplets from Scotland, were visiting India at the time. So, I decided to go find the School of the Hidden scroll! Dad was at work, and Mom was at her knitting group, so I just left a note and rode my bike to the airport.

I knew that Little Wally’s Dad gives people free airline tickets all over the world if they will deliver packages or papers for them. I signed up at the kiosk next to the rental car companies. I said, “Hi! I’m a friend of Little Wally Pickleface! He told me that you send people all over the world! Do you have any deliveries to India today?!” The man behind the counter looked really sleepy. He was having trouble staying awake. He looked at me closely, or at least, he tried to.

“Are you over 18?” he asked, his speech slurred.

“No!” I said, but I’m a hard worker and I know martial arts!” He looked confused.

“You’re over 18?” he asked again.

“No!” I repeated. He stared at me some more, like he was struggling to remember something or trying to stay awake. He may have been on drugs. I’ll have to mention this to Little Wally. He wrote something down. “Over 18″, he muttered. I got a briefcase handcuffed to my wrist and a first class ticket to Mumbai leaving in 2 hours! The flight was really boring since I hadn’t remembered to bring anything to read other than SSS’s book. So I read that 3 or 4 times, getting more and more excited about my upcoming studies.

After handing the briefcase over to the proper people in Mumbai, I got out the map in SSS’s book. I couldn’t find a single one of the landmarks mentioned there! Before I knew it, I was completely lost and didn’t speak the language. I resigned myself to a lonely life of begging for change, singing the Eelboy theme song on the street or maybe joining a rogue troop of wandering ninjas.

Walking down the street, bemoaning my fate, I happened across a felafel shop which I didn’t expect to see in India. I walked in and asked for a job. Luckily, they spoke English and I spent the next week frying food and asking about the directions I found in the book. No one had ever heard of any of the landmarks mentioned.

Then one day, I heard an unfamiliar voice asking about me. I figured it was someone up to no good, so I ran out the back door, but he was too quick for me. It turned out to be Mick, a cute friend of Sol’s. Sol & P. had flown all the way to India to find me! Mick takes his vacations in India, so he’s familiar with the lay of the land. And he’s also a spy! So he’s good at tracking people down. Sol told me how worried everyone was and asked me why I didn’t call. This sounds stupid, but it never occurred to me to call! Duh!

So, because of all of that, I can’t go to martial arts camp in Hawaii and I had been looking forward to that for 2 years!

The End.

–Nancy Pagh

a woman was let die, out of sight, in a fever ward.

–Eavan Boland

–W.H. Oliver

Anyway on to the meme! Although I’m not a big fan of Wikipedia, I am a fan of internet memes! Here goes:

Here’s your assignment should you choose to accept it. Go to Wikipedia, type in your birth month and day.Then post the following on yer blog: 3 Events, 2 Births, 1 Holiday/Observance.

Events:

1945 – Iva Toguri D’Aquino, a Japanese-American suspected of being wartime radio propagandist Tokyo Rose, is arrested in Yokohama.

1957 – Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road goes on sale.

1960 – The poet Léopold Sédar Senghor is elected President of Senegal.

Births:

1750 – Robert Fergusson, Scottish poet (d. 1774)

1912 – John Cage, American composer (d. 1992)

Holiday:

Abdas of Susa

Well, I am a big Kerouc fan. And I love John Cage’s writings although I don’t usually care for his music. I read some Robert Fergusson years ago, but don’t recall my impressions. I will have to go to the library and discover some Léopold Sédar Senghor!

I tag Kiki & Nina, Jinx & Pheobe and Anenome!

trace the master’s shadow; foot poised in the air, he bends

his torso.

–Jose Kozer

Johanna Prashad of Tasmania asks “Where did the name ‘Ghoul Squad’ originate?”

Well Johanna, you’re in luck. Today’s episode of the T.A.Z. Mahal not only continues our narrative, but answers that question. Enjoy!

Ghoul Squad Roll Call:

Nigel Cuttlefish (chairman)
P.
Ritchie Sauces
Amy Greathouse (treasurer)
Pepper Weckelsby (secretary)
Sol Weckelsby
Persephone Smallweed

Not sure what to do next, we all congregated at the Artful Mug, the coffee house run by Persephone’s father. We sat in silence for a few minutes, followed by rampant speculation. What had each one of us seen? Did Serious shoot Harriet? If not, who did and why?

Before long, we were approached by a meaty looking police detectice with a walrus mustache. He identified himself as Bulldog Drummond and asked if we were the students who had been speaking with Serious during the intermission. We confirmed this.

“I’ll need you to come down to the station to make a statement. Nigel Cuttlefish, eh? You’re Cordelia’s younger brother, aren’t you?”

Nigel gave him a grim steely gaze and said firmly “I have no sister.”

The detective appeared confused and taken aback.

“But … I met you at her house. Just on Tuesday night. Don’t you recall?”

“Oh, yes!” Nigel brightened. “What a jolly get together. It was a pleasure. Cordelia always puts out a nice spread. Drummond’s the name, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes,” Pepper said. “He introduced himself about 90 seconds ago. We all know his name.”

Bulldog regained his stride. “I hear you’re a bit of an amateur sleuth yourself, Nigel. How would you and your little friends like to learn how a real police investigation is conducted?”

“But wouldn’t that be a severe breach of ethics?” asked Pepper. “And besides, we were talking to one of your suspects, minutes before the crime occured.”

“Oh, ho, ho!” Bulldog laughed heartily. “Breach of ethics! Oh, hang on to this one, Nigel. She’s a keeper!” Pepper was about to tell him off when Nigel jumped up.

“My friends and I would be honored to accompany you, sir!” cried Nigel and he clicked his heels together.

“None of you are well…, weirdos, are you?” asked Detective Drummond. “There have been rumours about the university theatre. Rumours of … the occult“.

At that moment, Amy did something that I have never seen her do before or since. She squeaked. Luckily the detective did not notice.

Minutes later, we were racing through the city streets in Bulldog Drummond’s modified roadster, Ritchie in the sidecar. At the station, a block and a half from the coffeeshop, we observed Bulldog interrogate Serious from behind the one-way mirror.

BD: Now, we have a statement from one of your classmates. He tape recorded a class you take together and has quoted you asking this question to your professor. “Professor Thornborrow, wouldn’t you agree that the highest form of artistic expression would be the act of murder. Argueably, a purely random and meaningless act of violence has more artistic value than the entire creative output of Christopher Marlowe and Madonna combined. Wouldn’t you agree?” Now that was recorded on Oct. the 13th in your … Introduction to Organic Chemistry class. Do you deny making this statement?

SD: I don’t recall that exact statement, but it sounds like something I would say.

BD: Hurm. Now, what were you doing backstage?

SD: I was delivering a note to Harriet. P., a poet of no small talent* had taken a fancy to her.

BD: And you know her in what capacity?

SD: I am her buddy. I had volunteered to show international students around campus, introduce them to people, make them feel comfortable, etc. I was assigned to Harriet.

BD: And at precisely what time did you shoot Harriet?

SD: I did not shoot her.

BD: Well, can’t blame a fellow for trying. Go on. Who else was back stage?

SD: When I entered the room, Harriet was having a hushed conversation with Jan Betel. Her son Dickie was sitting on the couch on the other end of the room with Iliana Chaikovskaya, an accomplished dancer and confidante of Harriet’s. She was reading a lurid-looking novel with a rather garish cover. I averted my eyes quickly so as not to look at it for too long.

BD: And that’s all?

SD: Oh yes, there were also security guards present. One of them was named H.Q.

BD: And how did you come to know his name?

SD: Well, he kept repeating it. He was speaking quite loudly to the other guard whom he called ‘Radish’, but I’m not sure if this was a nickname or an insult or what? I mean, he couldn’t possibly be named Radish, could he?** He kept saying “Just listen to your pal, H.Q.” or “H.Q. will show you how it’s done” and so on. He also pulled out his gun quite a bit, showing it to ‘Radish’.

BD: Hmm. The theatre says there was only one guard backstage. One … Humberto Quackenbush. We’ll have to track down this ‘Radish’. And then what happened?

SD: I waited until Harriet was finished speaking with Ms. Betel. The Bete;s left the backstage area with Iliana and the guards seemed to have disappeared as well. I was giving her the note when I saw a glowing gloved hand holding a pistol emerge from behind a curtain. Before I could do or say anything, the hidden figure fired. I am rather ashamed to tell you this, but I have to admit that I soiled my trousers.

BD: Well, … er … don’t feel too bad, lad. You were in a life and death situation.

SD: No, I mean just now, as I was telling you my story.

BD: Er, I think we can take a bit of a break right now.

SD: Certainly. Thank you for interrogating me today. Would you like to answer a brief customer satisfaction survey? Please press or say ‘one’ to continue. To complete this interrogation, please press or say ‘two’.

BD: Er, two.

SD: Thank you for participating in our survey. Did Serious answer your questions in a courteous fashion this evening?

BD: No, I said ‘two’.

SD: My apologies. Have a nice day. By the way, can I say hello to my friends in the next room?

Bulldog looked in our direction.

“Drat,” he said. “Forgot to turn on the one-way mirror again.” He ushered us into the interrogation room and left.

Amy was the first to speak. “This glowing hand you saw. Did it leave an ectoplasmic trail? Did you hear any unusual sounds? Was there a lingering scent of pine?”

Nigel jumped in. ” Did you happen to notice any distinctive mud on the ground?”

“Ectoplasm?” Serious laughed. “Distinctive mud? I do believe you and your little Ghoul Squad intend to solve this mystery! Ghoul Squad...” he mused, savoring the sound of the words. “Yes… yes. I do believe you should call yourselves the Ghoul Squad.”

“Well, I was thinking…” Nigel started.

“GHOUL SQUAD!” Serious shouted. “Ghoul Squad! Ghoul Squad! I’ll pay you each $100 dollars to call yourselves the Ghoul Squad!”

We all looked at each other. One hundred dollars for doing nothing. Why not?

“Fifty dollars!” cried Serious. “Will you call yourselves the Ghoul Squad for fifty dollars each?” Nigel haggled him up to $75.

“Marcel!” Serious bellowed. “My changepurse!” Marcel appeared out of nowhere (Weren’t there policemen guarding the room?) and presented us with $75 each and a receipt.

The Ghoul Squad had it’s first case.

Well, that was a rather exhilarating episode, wasn’t it? Hope your questions were answered, Johanna. Join us next time.

CAN YOU GUESS WHO SHOT HARRIET?

PIT YOUR WITS AGAINST YOUR FELLOW T.A.Z.MAHAL READERS AND VOTE FOR WHO YOU THINK THE CULPRIT MUST BE!

WAS IT ….

THE ECCENTRIC ARTIST?

THE JILTED LOVER?

THE ROGUE SECURITY GUARD?

THE MISCHEVIOUS GHOST?

OR SOMEONE ENTIRELY UNEXPECTED?

Poll: Who do YOU think shot Harriet?

* I blushed. I keep this statement in strictly for posterity’s sake.
** This coming from a man named Serious Dogstar.

What am I talking about? Check out the following comment:

randy woolf said:
June 28th, 2007 at 12:02 am e
hi

hello to pilp, whoever you may be. i am very happily surprised to hear that you have some of my music on your iPod. thanks! say hello at my myspace page.

: )

I now realize that not all of my readers are also avid readers of Nina and Kiki’s blog. If they were, they would know that Pilp has been revealed to be none other than Pepper Weckelsby! New readers can read about my first meeting with the charming Pepper here. Hope that clears things up, Maestro Woolf!

While Maestro Woolf, or ‘Randy’, as his friends call him, may be surprised that Pepper has his music on her iPod, it does not surprise me in the least. That is because it was I who gave Pepper the recording of his ballet Where the Wild Things Are. A few years back, I was in charge of distributing the freebie spoken word recordings we received from various labels to give out at Poetry-Con. Apparantly, the recording of this ballet was mistakenly thrown in. On seeing this disc, I immediately thought, “This is something Pepper would like!” After the con, we got together with Sol, Serious, Marcel and perhaps a few others for my homemade beef stew and some red wine. At Serious’ suggestion, we listened to the ballet as we watched Fritz Lang’s Metropolis with the sound off. A memorable night.

While I am quite fond of this ballet, I am ashamed to admit I knew very little else about this wonderful composer. So, I went to check out his website and myspace page to learn more.

He has studied with David Del Tredici, a fabulous composer whose obsession with Alice in Wonderland rivals that of Rich Sauces. Maestro Woolf’s music has been performed by Bang On a Can, California EAR Unit, Jennifer Choi, the American Composers Orchestra and many others. He has also worked with John Cale and Siouxsie Sioux, so he has some goth cred. He recently premiered his work “Everything is Green” based on the short story of the same name by the T.A.Z. Mahal’s good friend and friend to dogs everywhere, David Foster (Dave) Wallace.

I hope Randall Woolf would not be terribly offended if I classified him in the Totalist, or Maximalist school.

I was also very excited to discover that Mr. Woolf is married to the wonderful pianist Kathleen Supové Ms. Supové has recorded to the works of Nick Didkovsky, Robert Carl, Lukas Ligeti and many others including the charming Marti Epstein, best known for her soft Morton Feldman-esque music and her short, tight skirts.

I recall one Halloween party where Marti was playing Kathleen Supové’s recording of her work Waterbowls. Marti writes out her own scores by hand in a very detailed fashion. In a master class, the great composer and conductor Leonard Bernstein noticed this and remarked “Isn’t that precious.” As if the great Bernstein was one to cast aspersions on someone for overdoing anything.

Hmm, I seemed to have digressed.

Oh yes, Mr. Woolf has had his work Action Potential performed by the marimba-violin duo Marimolin. I recall spending a long train journey with the husband of Marimolin’s Sharan Leventhal. Perhaps his name was Steve. I don’t really remember. To make things less confusing, I’ll simply call him Edmondo. Anyway, Edmondo, an ethnomusicologist and percussionist of some renown, regaled me with story after story of his field work. Inevitably, each story ended with one of the subjects of his study angrily asking him “who the &^#$* he thought he was!” The coffee on that journey was delightful.

Mr. Woolf has also written a keyboard work Spineless Dog that is 24 hours in duration! If that work is ever performed in our fair city, you know Serious Dogstar will be front and center at the end of the piece to yell “Encore!”

I’m so glad to have had this excuse to become reaquainted with Mr. Woolf’s music. I encourage you to check it out for yourselves.

Skipper writes “Mr. P., you never mentioned the first time you met Mr. Nigel Cuttlefish. Would any aspect of this encounter contain any amusing anecdotes?”

Why yes, Skipper. Yes it would.

I had left behind good friends and poor academics at my previous school (I won’t mention the institution) to come here to the university. As fate would have it, I was assigned to room with a fellow English major with the most improbable name of Nigel Cuttlefish.

As I stumbled into our rooms, arms full of luggage, Nigel, dressed in his customary tweeds and deer-stalker cap, looked up from his easy chair.

“You’re interested in rooming together, are you?” he asked, making no move to help me with my bags.

“Well…, yes. The housing office assigned me to this room. You are Nigel, then?”

“You don’t mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?”

“Well…, I’m allergic, actually. I was told this was a non-smo-”

“That’s good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”, he looked quizzically at me.

“What sort of experiments?” I was beginning to become irritated. “You know I was assigned to this room. It’s not your place to inter-”

“Let me see — what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together.” He let out a chuckle with which I would soon become quite familiar.

“Do you realize–” I tried to say before being interrupted yet again.

“Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?”

“It depends on the player,” I answered wearily, playing along. “A well-played violin is a treat for the gods — a badly played one — ”

“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh. “I think we may consider the thing as settled — that is if the rooms are agreeable to you.”

“If you’re quite finished?…” I said, waiting until I was certain I wouldn’t be interrupted again before continuing.

“Is there any particular reason that every word you’ve spoken to me thus far has been a quotation from the opening of A Study in Scarlet?”*

He stood silent for a moment before saying, “Yes! Yes, there is!”

He then turned on his heels, marched into his room and shut the door. After setting my bags down, I quietly walked over and put my ear to the door. I could hear him humming very loudly and tunelessly** while moving furniture about. I put my things in my room and went to investigate the kitchen we shared. I decided to make some dinner.*** Just as I was finishing the meal, Nigel re-appeared, sitting down at the table, tucking a napkin into his collar as a bib.**** We ate this first meal together discussing the work of Thomas Hardy.

And the rest, as they say, is history! Hope that answered your question, Skipper!

*by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
** A very famous tune that I cannot place at the moment. A romantic piano work. Chopin, most likely.
*** I love to cook, although I don’t claim to be very good at it. Living alone, it’s not often worth the trouble. That evening, I prepared beef kabobs in the Lebanese style, a recipe I no longer attempt after encountering Sol’s superior version.
**** Without a word of thanks for the meal, I might add. While Nigel can be quite courteous, he never once thanked me for the numerous meals I prepared during the time we roomed together.

I’ve been plotting with Anenome on how to deal with Nigel, meeting with the planning committee for PC2007, editing a new poetry volume, trying to write new poetry AND taking a Chinese cookery class at the Learning Annex at the Institute. And I haven’t forgotten about all of you commenters. I intend to respond to each and every one of you when I get a free moment. And back to our story!

Every other week, the University puts on a major theatrical, musical or artistic production, prefaced by student presentations that anyone can sign up for. When I arrived at the theatre with Sol & Pepper, I was overjoyed to see several familiar names on the program.

Before the first act, the dean introduced a very special guest, Jan Betel, whose patronage paid for the event. She was seated next to her son Dickie who Nigel & I knew from our fencing class. “I’m so sorry all these horrible people are spoiling your birthday!” Jan hissed to Dickie not realizing* that there was a microphone nearby. “We’ll have a real party as soon as they all leave. Can I buy you something to make it all better?” Poor Dickie squirmed in his seat looking mortified.

Ms. Betel approached to podium. “My dear students. Welcome. Many of my friends (no one any of you would know) have asked me why I’ve sent my dear son Dickie to this university. After all, I have a great deal of money.” She stared into the distance lazily for a moment contemplatively before resuming her speech. “Yes, a great deal of money. Why send my only son to this school?”

“Only son? I thought she had two other boys!” I heard a whisper from behind me.

Ms. Betel continued. “I sent young Dickie here because there is so much that people of your station can teach him. How to procure illegal substances. Relations with the local bail bondsman. The latest dance steps.” Without another word, she left the podium and sat down leaving the audience unsure of whether she had finished or not. There was a smattering a polite applause.

The evening began in ernest with The Nice Young Men, a barbershop quartet featuring our own Ritchie Sauces as well as Dickie Betel. It was enjoyable if you like that sort of thing, although we were surprised to see one of the quartet wearing short pants.** Odd since he was performing onstage and this was in the middle of winter! Apparantly, he wears these abbreviated slacks wherever his travels take him.***

Next on was Wotcher!, a skiffle group led by a man who must have been my parents age or older. I asked Pepper if he was a faculty member. “Colin? No. He’s a local eccentric. I have a few classes with him. He’s been an undergrad for decades! I hear he’s quite the charmer, though. If you have a girlfriend, you should probably have her steer clear of him.”

If I have a girlfriend! Oh, these words stabbed through my very being like a icepick through the cornea! If I had a girlfriend, she wouldn’t be attending the theatre or art museums alone, say I! I busied myself looking through the program. “Oh my good friend Amy is on next! She will be giving an interpretive dance! That one is filled with hidden depth!” I tried to keep my tone of voice cheery.

If I needed a distraction at that moment, Amy certainly provided it. Her dance was captivating and absorbing. I was at the edge of my seat, eyes glued to the stage. Only the boos and catcalls following her performace broke my trance. It seems no one else shared my appreciation for her work. Their loss.

And then, after a brief intermission: Hamlet. While my primary literary interests lie in the past century and a half, I’ve always had a special place in my heart for the bard. The performance was adequate, but I kept being distracted by the two men seated in front of us. Since one of them kept whispering in the other’s ear, I mistook them for a couple.**** As I leaned forward to shush them, I noticed that the whisperer was reading to the other young man from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Between the 2nd and 3rd scenes, I politely asked them to keep it down. The whisperer apoligized and said “Sorry, Serious likes to listen to the dialogue from one Shakepeare play as he watches another.” As I absorbed this odd bit of information, I recognized the whisperer as Marcel, a young writer whose poetry was over-rated, but whose dramatic work showed tremendous promise, greater than any other English major I knew of.

I would have responded, but I was struck dumb by the entrance of Ophelia. Longtime readers perhaps have already guessed that Ophelia was played by the young French actress Harriet. I had not suspected her nationality though since she bore no trace of an accent. Her beauty and extraordinary acting kept me captivated.

Pepper must have noticed this. “Why don’t you send her a note?!” she suggested at the intermission while we stood in line for snowcones.***** As I hemmed and hawed she fumbled though her purse for pen and paper. Finally, she turned to the gentleman standing behind us in line, who turned out to be none other than Marcel’s companion. “Excuse me”, Pepper said. “Can I borrow a pen really quick?”

His eyes brightened and he replied. “Yes, but first let me ask you, are you …. serious?” He arched an eyebrow as I noticed Marcel appear out of nowhere, roll his eyes and exale with resignation, a harbinger of what was to follow. Pepper began to respond, but he interrupted her by singing loudly “HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SERIOUS?”****** while gyrating and giving Pepper odd and improbable looks. This, of course, attracted a great deal of attention. Marcel, acting as if he had done this countless times before began to sing the bass line of the song while miming the onstage persona of Noel Redding. “Well, I have”.

He finished singing and presented Pepper with a pen. “A blue pen to go with your lovely blue eyes,” he purred. “But my eyes are grey,” she said hesitantly, as if approaching an unpredictable animal. “Marcel!” he yelled. Marcel, who had just disappeared reappeared just as suddenly holding out what looked like a contact lense case sitting atop a purple pillow. Pepper examined the case. “Color contacts?” she asked.

As Marcel and his friend walked away,******* Nigel appeared behind us.

“Ah, I see you’ve met the young Serious Dogstar.”

“You know him?” I asked my roommate.

“No, never met the man.” he replied.

“Then how do you know his name?” Pepper asked “And who the heck are you anyway?”

“Nigel Cuttlefish at your service!” he beamed, sticking his thumbs in his armpits. “As to how I knew his name, merely look at the pen he gave you!” Nigel chuckled.

Pepper and I gave the pen a closer look. On it was engraved, “A blue pen to go with your lovely blue eyes from Serious Dogstar“

“Oh brother,” thus Pepper. She took a napkin and quickly wrote out a note, not letting me see. “Now, how do we get this to Harriet?” she mused.

“Never fear,” an already familiar voice bellowed, “Serious is present!” He and Marcel were approaching us again.

“Uh, thanks for the pen. Bye.” Pepper started to walk away.

“But Harriet is my buddy!” Serious said.

“It’s true”, Marcel spoke up. “She’s an exchange student and Serious is showing her around.” The crowd had made their way back into the auditorium and we were nearly alone in the lobby. Pepper reluctantly agreed to give Serious the note and as he vanished through the backstage door, we returned to our seats.

Just as we were sitting down we heard a loud bang. I assumed that it was a part of the production until I recalled that we were seeing Hamlet which traditionally does not make use of firearms. The bang was followed by a high-pitched scream and a female voice with a Russian accent yelled “Harriet! She’s been shot! Serious has shot Harriet!”

To be continued ….

* Or perhaps not caring
** Junie tells me this style of trousers are called “shorts.”
*** I’m told that he is quite the world traveller.
**** Forgive me, Marcel!
***** A local theatre custom. Odd, but charming.
****** To the tune of “Are You Experienced” by the Jimi Hendrix Experience
******* I don’t understand why they left. They didn’t want their snowcones any longer?

I rushed back to our flat, knocking over fruit stands and passers-by. When I reached our apartment, only Nigel sat in our living room, flipping through a rather large novel.

“Oh hello, P. Don’t worry about not showing up. We went ahead without you, but the delk turned out to be a big dud. Neither Amy nor I felt any effects. Poor Ritchie felt a bit nauseous and Persephone became a bit … er, … amorous”, Nigel blushed. Regaining his composure, he continued, “I guess that rock star sold you bill of goods.” He chuckled heartily although there was nothing particularly funny about his remark.

And that was that. Or so we thought. However, over the course of the next year, the four of them went through a number of startling changes. I thought nothing of it at the time. After all, we were all in our late teens-early twenties. Who doesn’t go through drastic transformations at that age?

Amy began calling herself Anenome.* Passing through the hallway, one used to hear strains of Lorena McKennitt and Tori Amos, but now she only listened to the French Spectralists.** She stopped writing poetry*** and began her solitary research into the occult.

Persephone soon broke up with Nigel.**** She stopped being a sullen goth and became sickly-sweet mannered and obsequious. Her ‘little Bo Peep’ outfits gradually entered her wardrobe until she wore nothing else. Even though it was Persephone who broke up with Nigel, she became insanely jealous and became increasingly suspicious of all of Nigel’s aquaintences. If Nigel began seeing anyone, she would ‘befriend’ the young lady, serenading them with her trademark ballad “Have you seen but a whyte lilie grow?” on a nightly basis until they would become sufficiently creeped out to leave town.

Poor Ritchie Sauces suffered the most obvious transformation. He legally changed his name to ‘Rich Sauces’ and embarked on a quest for the utmost limits of depravity. He was soon arrested for what he did at the art museum. And the planetarium. And the musuem of natural history. His entire manner had changed and he began to exude an odor resembling that of dandruff shampoo.***** Then he sought to include others in his ‘art films’, with or without their knowledge.

And then there was Nigel. Nigel was always … eccentric, shall we say? I have to admit I never noticed any real change in his behaviour. Our friendship remind solid for several years until a certain incident caused us to go our seperate ways. No need to get into that now.

The next week, I did join Sol and Pepper for the university production of Hamlet where I first beheld the charming Harriet starring as Ophelia. This production was to lead to the formation of the wretched ‘Ghoul Squad’ by Nigel. But I get ahead of myself.

When Anenome & I met the other night, she informed me that in her research of the unusual and unsettling, she uncovered an old book called The Delk and its Effects on the Young by Nazzereno Pagliughi. After reading this lengthy tome, she believes that the personality changes they all experience are due to their experimentation. She feels that Nigel’s recent strange behavior is due to a recent 2nd encounter with delk. We need to investigate further.

* Again?
** Her poor roommate Göta could not stand any of Amy/Anenome’s musical tastes, pre- or post-delk.
*** Or perhaps she just stopped sharing it with others.
**** He claimed it was ‘mutual’.
***** It took me years to identify this scent.

Getting back to the story, we were to experiment with the delk on Sunday night. I was to act as an observer, performing rigorous calisthenics and algebraic equations.

I spent that Sunday in the same way I spend most Sundays if I have the opportunity. At the art museum. The art museum came to represent something special in my life. Not because of the later Ghoul Squad meetings in the coffee/gift shop and not because it was the location of Rich’s first of many brushes with Johnny Law. No, it is special because it was there that on that fateful Sunday I first met Sol & Pepper.

I was staring raptly at the portraits of Richard Gerstl, part of a traveling exhibit, wishing the museum had provided some biographical information on the artist. Usually, I find such trivialities to be distracting and it annoys me that many visitors spend more time looking at the placards on the wall than they do studying the art itself! But, I was so struck by these enigmatic paintings that I had to know more. My reverie was interrupted by a sweet voice that would become increasingly familiar in the weeks to follow.

“And after his affair with Mathilde, he was so overcome with guilt that he burnt all of his letters, all of his artwork, hung AND stabbed himself! I mean, how do you do that? How can you stab yourself while hanging from a rope! Obviously very talented. Or did he stab himself and then hang himself? How does that work? Jeepers!”

A male voice grunted in reply.

This kind of tawdry artist gossip was exactly the kind of information I had been seeking. I whirled around to see who commenting on these remarkable painting. I must have overdone the whirling a bit since the young woman let out a loud yelp of surprise. I overcame my great embarrasment and introduced myself to the pair. The striking young lady with long, jet black hair was named Pepper. Her hulking musclebound brother, Sol, had hair that was equally dark, but quite short and wirey.

“Sol and Pepper!” I chuckled. “You must …” My jocuse witticism was stopped dead in its tracks by a glare from Sol. “You must … know quite a bit about art”, I recovered.

“Oh,” Pepper blushed. “Well, I’m a painting student at the university and I have an interest in the expressionists.”

“You must know my good friend Ritchie Sauces then”, I said, happy to have someone in common.

“Oh yes, he’s quite a good artist! Very conservative, which the teachers hate, but he’s really good with heartwarming family scenes and tasteful nude portraits. What artists are you interested in?” This started a spirited discussion that lasted through the exhibition continuing on through the rest of the museum and on to Ms. Yi’s Chinese buffet.

Sol was characteristically quiet. I will admit that I initially made the same mistake that most people make upon meeting Sol. Because of his size and his reticent manner, people assume that he is not very bright. This could not be further from the truth. Not only is Sol the smartest person I know, he is the smartest person I know OF. At first, I didn’t think he was paying much attention to the conversation, but every once in a while he would throw out a terse observation that showed that not only was he keeping up, but he probably knew more about the subject than most experts. What a remarkable individual that I am proud to call Friend.

As the conversation proceeded, it became clear that Pepper and I had so much in common. We both loved Giacometti. We didn’t care for Bukowski. Neither one of us could see the influence of Giacinto Scelsi on the work of Gerard Grisey and Tristan Murail. Oh, how Sol mocked us for weeks about that!

The conversation turned to Shakespeare and Pepper asked “Did you know about the university production of Hamlet next week!? You have to come along! We have an extra ticket since my boyfriend Renaldo can’t make it.” Boyfriend?! My heart sank. I hoped that my expression did not betray my feelings.

“Oh”, I ventured, not as nonchalantly as I had hoped. “Why didn’t he join you at the museum today? Did he have to work?”

“Oh no”, said Pepper. “He just doesn’t care for art.”

Doesn’t care for art! My world made no sense.

I fumbled for my calendar to see if I was available the night of the play when I happened to glance at the clock above Ms. Yi at the bar. I was late! I had completely lost track of time! Nigel and the others had taken the delk nearly an hour ago! I hastily excused myself and ran out into the night hoping I was not too late.

–Guillaume de Machaut

–Lew Welch

The next day, I, along with Nigel, pored over the instructions that came with the delk. Before we could get started in earnest, Persephone strolled out of Nigel’s bedroom (I had no idea she had been there!) wearing only a Souxie and the Banshees T-shirt of Nigel’s. While she was, admittedly, quite attractive, there was something about her that made me uncomfortable. The doorbell rang. It was Amy (Anenome) and Ritchie with danish and coffee. *

In my foolish need to impress my new friends, I told them of the delk. They were naturally curious and we examined the note together. It was printed on a high quality paper in Fraktur, although it was in English. It smelled of stale tobacco, burnt sugar and sweat.

The instructions specified that the delk was best taken as a suppository or in food, preferably in a bechamel sauce. Persephone brightened up. “This is the perfect chance to finally put that suppository making class from high school to use!”** After an uncomfortable silence, Ritchie offered, “Or we could just put it in the sauce and eat it.” He said this slowly and deliberately. After another moment of silence, we all jumped in and agreed. Persephone sulked. I don’t know if she was embarrassed or disappointed. She was always difficult to read.

Nigel suddenly burst from his chair with great enthusiasm. “Bechamel sauce! Bechamel sauce! We must discover it’s secrets!” He ran to the bookshelf, grabbing reference books at random, consulting the index, then throwing the volume over his shoulder, hitting Ritchie at least once.

These reference books included the Encyclopedia Judaica vol. 8, Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart, bd. 21, the 2nd Encyclopedia of Comic Books Heroes,*** World Book Encyclopedia, vol. 1, The Snoopy Cyclopedia, vol. 1 and a Spanish reference on biology that I am not familiar with. He became increasingly frantic.

“Nigel!” cried Amy. “Nigel! Nigel! Calm down! Flour, butter and milk! It’s flour, butter and milk! I know how to make it!” Immediately, Nigel composed himself and returned to his easy chair. “Come to think of it,” Amy continued, “You taught me how to make it, Persephone. Why didn’t you say anything?” Persephone merely shrugged.

We returned to the instructions. “During the ritual, there must be one individual who does not participate. He or she must engage in vigorous physical exercise, alternating this activity with the performance of quadratic equations. The equations need not be solved correctly as long as the proper effort is made,” Nigel read.

“We must draw straws!” Nigel ran to the cupboard, grabbing a handful of bendy straws. He pulled a giant cleaver from a bottom drawer and chopped the top off of a single straw. This sickening thud reverberated throughout the flat.

He brought the straws into the room obscuring their lengths. We all chose straws and you can imagine who chose the shorter one. “But P.,” Amy said, “You were the one who found the delk! This isn’t fair. We’ll draw again.”

“No, no, Amy. It’s all in good fun. Fair’s fair.” To be honest, I was a bit relieved. So it was settled. We decided on a mutually convenient time. That Sunday at 6 PM. If only we knew had lay ahead.

* I should mention that Anenome’s recollections of that morning differ from my own, but not in any significant way.

** No, I’m not sure where she went to high school.

*** Borrowed from Ritchie. To the best of my knowledge, never returned.

My friendship with Nigel took place before ipods were as ubiquitous as they are today, but I would be shocked if he does not own one. Back in our college days, he jerry-rigged an ingenious Rube Goldberg-esque device that connected a random number generator to my cd player, his tape deck, turntable, a wax cylinder that we found and the piano rolls for the player piano that we purchased together.*

On the rare occasions this device worked, we were able to play random selections from our collections of music and spoken word recordings. Great fun! More often than not, however, it just caused a big mess. I’ll never forget the time the plumber returned to fix our persistant toilet problems and tripped over this contraption. He let out a perfect Cockney “Oy! What’s all this then!”** and graciously accepted our apologies.

Anyway, enough woolgathering, on with the meme!

Directions: If your life was a movie, what would the soundtrack be?

1. Open your mp3 library
2. Put it on shuffle.
3. Press Play.
4. For every question, type the song that’s playing.
5. When you go to a new question, press the Next button.
6. Don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool.
7. Don’t skip songs.

My Movie:

1. Opening credits: Digital / Elliot Sharp ; Kronos Quartet
2. Waking up: Hear My Train A-Comin’ / Jimi Hendrix
3. First day of school: Fugue no. 21 in B-flat Major, WTC Book I / J. S. Bach ; Boris Berman ***
4. Fight song: Bloodsport for all (seriously, this was completely random!) / Carter, the Unstoppable Sex Machine
5. Breaking up: Snake Hair Dun / David Torn, Mick Karn, Terry Bozzio****
6. Happiness: Tot nog Toe / Fanfare Sint Juttemis
7. Life’s okay: With This Love (Passion Soundtrack) / Peter Gabriel
8. Mental breakdown: Can’t Roll Back / Strategy
9. Driving: Sonata in A Major, Wq. 70, no. 1. Allegro / C.P.E. Bach
10. Flashback: Walky-talky / Harmonia
11. Getting back together: Finger Lickin Good / Beastie Boys
12. Wedding song: Under the Milky Way / Amasa
13. Birth of first child: Fur Elise / Ludwig van Beethoven ; Takeshi Terauchi & the Bunnies *****
14. Final battle scene: galaxy nine / Okay Temiz
15. Death scene: Five Fugues from Atlanta. No. 1 / Michael Maier
16. Funeral song: Take Five / Oziie Hall
17. End credits: Nobodies Fool / Nina Gordon

What fun! We’ll be back to the moroseness next post. In the meantime I tag:

Nina & Kiki, Phoebe & Jinx, Sol, Junie, Anenome

* Come to think of it, Nigel never payed me for his half of the piano. And he still has the piano!

** Our plumber was not in fact British, but Japanese American with an interesting accent combining hints of California surfer and Bostonian blue-blood.

*** The Wohltemperierte Klavier is Sol’s favorite workout music. At least it was during the short period of time when I would try to excersize with him. I couldn’t keep up with him!

**** Nigel once said that I resemble Terry Bozzio. No one else agreed. I don’t think I look like him at all.

***** Thank you so much Junie for introducing me to this wonderful guitarist and his fascinating renditions of classical melodies.

–Samuel Coleridge

My Cousin Z. is aquainted with a well-known rock star whose name I will not mention. I’ll just say that this individual’s songs have become part of our cultural heritage. If I asked you if you knew the lyrics to his top five hits, you might say no, but if the songs were played on the radio, you could sing along without missing a single word. While his music doesn’t speak to me particularly, I certainly appreciate his great craftmanship, both lyrically and melodically and jumped at the chance to meet him when Z. arrived in town with backstage passes for the big show at the Thunderdome.

After the concert (a wonderful show), when we arrived backstage, the musicians were partaking of a substance I would later learn was called cocaine. We were offered some, but Z. is what the young people call ‘straight edge’ and I must admit I’ve never had much interest in narcotics. Z. mentioned that I was a poet and I had a rather enlightening discussion with this musician on Robert Browning, whose work I had never considered significant. He certainly changed my mind!

Then he said something that changed my life forever, although I only realized it recently. He said, “You need to try some delk. It’ll really open your perceptions to the possibilities within the forest of the call of ideas beneath the surface.* You’ll need to follow the instructions precisely, though.” He then rummaged through a pocket in a soft gig bag, pulling out a packet covered in a black silk scarf wrapped in twine. “Take it,” he offered. “But follow the instructions precisely. The elder gods can be a bitch.” Then a trio of the most unpleasant-looking women I’ve seen in my life were ushered in wearing Japanese schoolgirl uniforms.

This was our cue to leave.

More later,

P.

*Actual quote. He was, you will remember, on drugs.

4 Jobs I have had in my life:

Freelance Poet

Dolphin Trainer

Computer Programmer

Rare Book Dealer

4 places I have lived

Basingstoke, England

Durham, North Carolina

Austin, Texas

Cambridge, MA

4 places I have been on holiday

Amsterdam

London

New York

Jerusalem

4 things I do every time I go on the Net

Check my email

look at pullip pics on flickr and pullipstyle.com and thevalleyofthedolls.com

Google the titles of my poems (you do it too! Admit it!)

visit my friends blogs

4 things I would NOT eat for anything in the world

A cello

A dolphin

Anything prepared by Rich Sauces

Anything that has been sitting around Nigel’s flat

4 places I would love to be right now

With my true love

Guggenheim Museum, NY, NY

Schnittke Archive, University of London

Anywhere but here

I TAG:
You, You, You, You, You

When I first came to this town and enrolled in the university, Nigel and I were roomates. While it quickly became clear to me that he was not a terribly good poet, he had a cheerful demeanor and we became good friends. He did have something of an unusual streak, even then.

Once, our flat was plagued with something of a clogged toilet. We called in a plumber to fix the problem. He said “You boys haven’t been flushing pornography down the toilet, now have you? Ho, ho, ho.”* We chuckled and said no. After a few moments of silence, Nigel’s face became flushed and he burst out in a rage. “Unless you are referring to the works of Vladimir Nabokov as pornography, in which case I have nothing further to say to you, sir!” And then he stormed out of the apartment.

Thus the plumber “Did he mean the complete works of Nabokov?”

What was Nigel doing exactly? It was never made clear to me.

At any rate, Nigel began introducing me to his friends. There was Amy Greathouse, another poet. Unlike Nigel, she clearly had talent, although stylisticly, her work did not appeal to me. She later started to call herself Anemone. It has never been clear to me which of these was her given name.

There was also the painter Ritchie Sauces, another budding talent. And Nigel’s off and on girlfriend Persephone, an actress whose father owned the local coffee shop where we would all meet and discuss Rilke, Wagner, Dine and others that we admired. These were happy times.

But the happiness did not last.

* He actually said “Ho, ho, ho”. Most disconcerting.

My God.

If what’s she says is correct, then it explains everything. Nigel’s odd behaviour, Amy’s psychic investigations, even the perversions of Rich Sauces.

And it’s all my fault.

Perhaps I should explain why I have been so alarmed by Nigel’s behavior.

Back in the days of the ridiculous Ghoul Squad, Nigel said that if he was ever replaced by a robot or master of disguise, or likewise possesed by demons, he would give us a signal. And people wonder why I consider him such a loon! Anyway, this sign would be a mention of an alleged affair between myself and Persephone and a book of poems. Naturally, I dismissed this stupid idea, as I did with all of the other nonsense Nigel was spewing in those Ghoul Squad days.

But now I fear my former friend may be in danger.

“once, years ago, i had a crush on persephone. the kind you have on someone that you know nothing about. little did i know that she was romancing p at the same time. when p found a book of poems i had written for her from afar. . . . let’s just say we haven’t been close since. and on the strength of that book of poems, persephone has deluded herself into thinking i have a passionate love for her! ”

For once, I have to commend Nigel, the true Nigel that is, for his foresight in all of his ridiculous Ghoul Squad training. Is this new Nigel an imposter or is this some sort of nefarious mind control?

As distasteful as it is to admit it, I fear that I may need to enlist the aid of Ms. Greathouse.

Old Lemon Tree sighs
Whose butt is in the water?
Eelboy rocks the house!

Scalped & buried
lamented mountain of tragedy
Cincinnati suckers walnut eyes
all is lost

Accordion bound rice paper volume
yet the poem within is worthless
Italian burgandy cover
with a donut shaped soul